People Talk
by PineappleApproves
Summary: Covier Manor was just the large building that sat at the edge of town and served as home to the quiet, reserved Covier family. And then, one day, all of them were found dead in that manor. People just talked. No one investigated, no one tried to find out what happened. Until a witcher came to town. [Complete]
1. Window

_**Author's Note: I started listening to creepy podcasts again and caught a case of the spooks. Now it's time for the spooky scary. (I hope this actually does turn out to be scary)**_

 _ **For those of you who have been following When We Were Invincible-first of all, thank you. Secondly, that story is on a break. I have legitimately gotten tired of writing it. 36 chapters, can you blame me? Don't worry, I will be picking it back up at some undisclosed point in the future. Maybe after a week or two. If you've been waiting for an update, sorry. Please be patient :)**_

 _ **As always, leave a review and let me know what you think. Thanks fam.**_

 _ **Now, without further ado, spooks.**_

* * *

I think I first became fascinated with witchers after I heard people talking. People always talk. At the Imperial Academy, it was usually about classes… What was the lecture about in O-Chem yesterday? Was there a quiz? No, I didn't go—I was in bed with a hangover. Did you finish the homework? What did you get for number three? Other times, the conversations became invitations to parties, get-togethers to celebrate the end of the week. And lastly, there was gossip. Who reportedly went home with who last Friday, that weird kid who sat at the back of the lecture hall… shallow, garbage topics like that.

At home, people talked too. I hailed from a town just a few miles away from Castel Graupian and the academy. It was a small, cozy place called Trivant, and while it wasn't as big or rich as its neighboring cities, it was… well, home.

Trivant manufactured textile, so the heart of the town was a cotton mill. It started as that mill, and then the rest of Trivant just kind of grew around it. Eventually, it got large enough to start dividing itself. At the core, nearest the mill, were the lower and middle class. The upper class lived in a ring around the edge.

I came from that outer ring. My parents were well off and could to send me to the Imperial Academy without much hassle. Though that privilege hasn't been lost on me, I do often find myself taking things like classes for granted.

Because people in the outer ring didn't have to busy their hands at the cotton mill, they talked. Gossip, mostly. There wasn't a neighbor in the world that didn't gossip. And because the Coviers were the richest people in town, we gossiped about them most of all.

I didn't know the Coviers. Hell, I didn't think I ever saw them. Most people never did. Old Marci once told us she saw Lady Covier step outside to view the rosebushes, but that was it. And because of that, we all came to the conclusion that they were odd and creepy. Maybe they had something to hide. Maybe they were doing something illegal. And yet, no one bothered to find out the truth. It was much easier, much more fun, just to gossip.

I remember the time when, for once, the Coviers were not the hottest buzz around town. It was during my first year at the Imperial Academy. Being a first year, I was unaccustomed to academy life and was stressed out, so I went home for the weekend to cool down. I came home to gossip about a monster.

And about a witcher.

I never saw him while he was in town to deal with whatever cretin had appeared before him, but that didn't stop me from hearing about him. Until then, no one knew anything about witchers. Then, as soon as he laid his first boot print in Trivant, suddenly self-proclaimed witcher experts started popping up like weeds. I laughed at them and their inflated heads like everyone else. At the same time, I listened to them.

Witchers, they said, used to be men but then underwent experiments and became mutants. Like lab rats, I supposed, except witchers didn't get euthanized in the end. They had cat eyes, superhuman reflexes. They smelled strange. Their accents were weird. And most importantly, they didn't feel. "Like crabs," these 'experts' told me. "Pull off a limb and they writhe in pain, but they don't cry. They don't laugh. They don't hug their mothers."

I found it odd comparing men to crabs, but I didn't know shit about witchers so I couldn't really say anything. And even if I didn't get to see him while he was hard at work saving the town, I managed to catch a glimpse of the witcher just before he left. It was when he was being paid after the job was done. The man paying him was my father's friend, a member of the town's council. I was peering from the window as he, the witcher, and my father stood outside on the long drive that led up to our house.

And, well, despite his cat eyes, his alleged weird smell, and everything else the 'experts' snickered at, that witcher was damn attractive.

I had a weakness for men with big arms. Sorry.

My mother came up behind me and asked me what I was looking at. I told her to go away. But I came away from the window. After that, I never saw the witcher again. He had gone. Their lives were nomadic ones, I was told. They didn't have a home, except wherever they conglomerated come winter.

A strange thought bubbled into my head. They went home for the winter. Just like me.

After that, I went back to the academy. This time I didn't just have a craving to learn about business administration. I became interested in witchers. It was just a healthy curiosity, mind you, not an obsession. Witchers were interesting. They were different. And, for the longest time, I thought they weren't exactly human. So when I say they fascinated me, it was akin to the fascination that many wealthy young girls, my neighbors, had for horses.

When I had the time, I visited professors of anthropology during their office hours to ask about what they knew on witchers. This surprised them. Students who weren't in their classes usually didn't come to talk to them. Students usually didn't ask about witchers. And students usually didn't come to office hours.

I hardly learned anything about witchers from them, but that didn't surprise me. And, as fate would have it, I never did. Over time, as exams and reports consumed my soul, I stopped caring about witchers. I didn't have the time to invest in learning about someone else's life while my own was tearing me a new one.

Eventually the academic rainstorm cleared. In the summer, the academy let out for four weeks to give us a breather. As usual, I went home.

Many strange things happened in those four weeks.

The first happened when I was out with Benji. He was a tiny, fluffy little dog that had cost a fortune. A foreign breed, the dog breeder had told my mother. And like that, she was sold.

Despite his short, stumpy legs, Benji loved to run. My parents weren't very keen on jogging after him. They wanted one of the housekeepers to take care of his daily exercise, but I wouldn't let them do it. I liked taking Benji out, and it was amusing to watch his tiny legs turn into a blur trying to keep up with my pace.

We were on our usual route. It was a scenic one. It went towards the hall used for art galleries and auctions, and we curved around it to exit the outer ring. We would go through a meadow where we could really run. Then we would loop back around, taking a path that came close to Covier Manor. And that's when I saw her.

I only knew who Alani Covier was because of the gossip. When I spotted her as Benji and I approached, I could only guess who she was. Luckily, I was right.

Alani Covier was the youngest out of all the Covier children. I didn't know exactly how old she was, but I estimated she was at least ten years my junior just from looking at her. Surprisingly, she was very friendly when I approached. I'd expected her to not say a word or run away, but she acted as any little girl would. Alani asked if she could pet Benji, and I told her yes. Benji was elated to have his head scratched. We had a friendly little chat. She was a bit shy. I noticed that she had bags under her eyes and asked if she was tired. She mumbled a response as she ruffled her dress.

Benji started growling. Not at me. Not at Alani. Not at anything. I looked down at him, a little vexed. Benji was always growling and snapping at the smallest distractions—a fly buzzing a little too loud, a waving leaf, or a blade of grass that looked at him the wrong way. I nudged him with a foot and he stopped.

I bade farewell to Alani and we went our separate ways. She was a sweet girl, but that wasn't going to stop me from telling my parents, friends, and everyone I knew what had happened. Like I said, we loved to gossip.

Benji and I returned to the house and I put the meeting with Alani Covier behind me… mainly because Benji promptly shit on the foyer rug and I got yelled at for it. In eight or nine years' time, I was looking at an executive seat in an institution or Nilfgaard's Board of Commercial Regulation. I'd be deciding which businesses stayed and which ones faced the block… metaphorically. And yet at home, I was still being scolded over dog shit.

And then things went from strange to horrifying.

If what the coroner said was to be believed, the day I talked to Alani Covier was her last. The next day, she and her entire family were murdered. But no one found out until a week later. Those living closest to the Covier Manor reported an awful stench. When it didn't fade, a couple of men went to the manor to complain. I wasn't with them, but I imagined the smell was unbearable as they marched up to the porch.

They told us later that they hadn't even walked up the first step when they stopped. They could only stare in horror, frozen. Something was leaking out from under the front door. Something dark. Something thick. Old, fetid blood.

Morris Lettle, the father of my childhood friend Louise, claimed he was the first to snap out of their shared shock and hurry up the porch. The others followed quickly after. The sight of the blood spurred a sense of urgency that overcame their manners, and they forced the door open without a moment's hesitation.

The door hit something as it opened. It was heavy. A body.

Alani Covier, it seemed, had been trying to escape when she died. The men told us her hand was stretched out as she lay on the ground, as though she had tried to reach for the door. Her pale, waxy face was stretched into a look of pure terror.

Hers wasn't the only corpse they found. As the men explored the manor, they found the others. And what they saw made them believe more and more that this had been no ordinary murder.

Lady Covier was found at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck. Her eldest son was on the floor of his room, though much of him was also on the wall. The other son's state was no less grisly. Lord Covier's body was tangled in the ballroom chandelier. The bodies of servants were found strewn across the kitchen and living rooms. They found more in the servants' quarters, after they'd broken down the barricaded door. _Barricaded_.

The gathering around me that was also listening to the men's recounts tittered that the killer must have been a monster. One of those supernatural ones. The men did say they felt a cold, eerie feeling in the air, though at the time they chalked it up to being in a manor full of corpses.

The men returned to the porch to clear their heads with fresh air while one of them ran off to summon the authorities. After the guards came, they helped search the entire manor and collect all the bodies. Morris made one last remark that set the entire gathering alight with excitement.

He emphasized the part of the story where they had searched the entire manor. Then, as they were carrying the last of the bodies out, Morris glanced back at the house.

He said he saw a face in one of the windows. Looking at out him.

It scared him. He shouted, and a couple of guards ran over. But when they looked, the glass was empty. Morris told us he had probably imagined things, as spooked as he was. The gathering agreed, entertained by the chilling story. I was silent. Then, I whispered to my father, excused myself, and stepped out of the living room.

For the past week, I had cared more about the fact that I'd actually talked to Alani Covier rather than what we actually talked about. But now, the details of our conversation flooded back to me. First of all, Benji hadn't been growling at nothing. I had been facing Alani as she stood behind the row of rosebushes, and Benji had growled towards my right. At the manor.

And then there were those bags under Alani's eyes. I'd asked her if she was tired. She admitted to me she was having trouble sleeping. "How come?" I had asked. Her voice had been only a mumble, and the ruffling of her dress covered most of her words. But I'd heard her, and her words suddenly resurfaced in my mind like something horrible and ugly from the bottom of a pond.

"Because the boy in the wall keeps scratching," she had said.


	2. Seen

The third thing that happened was the appearance of the witcher. He showed up three days after the discovery of the Covier deaths. By that time, people had chatted their fill about the tragedy. That was the disturbing thing. They talked, and then they just moved on. Like they were _okay_ with it. Nobody really knew the Coviers, true, so nobody mourned them. But they had been _murdered_. Everyone blamed it on a monster, shrugged their shoulders, and carried on. It was an excuse to dismiss and forget. People talked, but now they didn't want to talk about what happened in that manor anymore.

The Coviers had died and it was a tragedy. That was it. The end. Everyone assumed the danger was over. Not me. Whatever had been in the manor the day after I talked to Alani was still in there. I was sure of it.

So when the witcher came to town, nobody told him about the murders. Nobody mentioned the possible monster they had so adamantly discussed in the days prior. He must have become used to telling when a place had no work for him, because he was already leaving by the time I found him.

He was swinging his leg over the saddle. The fleeting urge to grab his leg and pull him down from the saddle entered my mind, but I quickly pushed it away. That idea was all kinds of dumb. Instead, I cried out.

"Hey!"

It wasn't the most eloquent of things to say, but it did the job. The witcher looked back. My breath literally caught in my throat and I almost choked on it. It was the eyes. I knew what they were like but I still couldn't have braced myself for what it was like being in their focus. They were exactly like cat eyes. Or reptilian eyes. They didn't belong on a human face.

The witcher probably realized this and quickly lowered them.

But it wasn't just that. This witcher, even if he wasn't supposed to really be completely human, was the most striking man I'd ever seen. His jaw was covered in a handsome beard, and his long hair was tied back. The corners of his eyes were just starting to crinkle with age. And, well, it was hard not to admire a man decked in armor.

Then I realized he was still waiting for a follow up to my outburst. I snapped out of my stupor to think, gather my thoughts. In the Imperial Academy, I took a course on effective communication, but I can't really remember much from that class except that it had been hell.

But there was something I needed to tell him.

"Can you find out what happened to the Coviers?" I asked.

Those eyes blinked and were brought back up to me. This time I was used to them, and I think he knew that. A hand slowly rose and tucked a lock of loose hair behind his ear. Behind his arm, I caught sight of a dagger sheath.

"Who were the Coviers?"

I noticed his use of past tense. I also noticed his accent. It was weird. It sounded local at first, but something didn't fit right.

I realized again that he was waiting for an answer. This time, I lowered my eyes as I tried to construct my explanation. Where to start? The murders? But perhaps I ought to provide a little background on the Coviers…

The witcher seemed to read into my silence. "Who should I talk to?" he asked.

"Who?" I repeated, looking back up. "Did you not think it was strange that you're only hearing from me now? No one else is going to talk about it. Everyone just stopped talking about it!" Sadly, my frustration was coming through my words, which might have made me sound a bit child-like.

Leather creaked as the witcher dismounted. Even down from his horse, the witcher was much, much taller than me. If I'd put a hand on the top of my head, it would only be level with his chest.

Still, he seemed much more daunting on foot. As he turned back to me, I took an involuntary step back. He didn't try to get closer to me. Standing there, holding the reins of his horse, he asked me if perhaps there was a place we could sit down to talk. I blurted out that we could go to my house. He nodded.

Oh dear. What had I done? I wasn't even sure that was a good idea. In fact, it probably wasn't. But I'd already offered it, and the witcher had already nodded. In my mind, that was binding.

Most of the worry came from how my parents would react. To be completely honest, I was a little excited at the prospect of inviting a witcher over. They were mysterious and interesting, and this one was nice to look at. Now, that wasn't the reason I'd invited him over. I wasn't the kind for flings. There had been one time at the academy when… Well, never mind.

When we arrived at the house, my parents looked at the witcher. And then they looked at me. And then they saw the look in my eyes pleading just to go with it. I didn't think the conclusions they came to in their heads matched with the truth, especially not with the way my mother was glaring at me.

I told them the truth. The witcher was here to investigate what happened to the Coviers. And that made their eyes turn really dark. But thankfully, in the presence of the giant, looming man, they didn't speak up.

They left us alone, and I led to the witcher to the living room. Of course, I did notice that my mother whispered something to Marci, and the old housekeeper stayed in the room with us afterwards. Really?

The witcher was looking at the decorative baskets hung on the wall. I never liked them, and they always seemed ironic to me. Baskets were the symbol of labor and the humble life, but here they were livening up the wall space. I scratched the side of my neck, and the witcher looked back at me.

I still wasn't used to those eyes. Or just how good-looking he was. Maybe my mother was right to have Marci stand guard.

I asked the witcher to sit down. A few moments later, some housekeepers came in with a platter of nutty bread and cheeses and a handle of mulled wine. It seemed that even if they weren't going to entertain the witcher with their presence, my parents still had the sense to offer a bit of hospitality. I did notice with a little annoyance that one of the cheeses was Gruyere. _My_ Gruyere.

The witcher looked down at the platter with interest that was quickly concealed. Nomadic lives, I remembered. I can't imagine what kind of food was available on the road. It was probably still better than what they served in the academy's second floor dining hall, anyhow.

He was still very reserved when he tucked in, and asked me to explain the situation to him. He told me to be precise and not leave anything out. I started with what I knew about the Coviers before they were killed. It was I realized that pretty much everything I knew came from gossip. I didn't know what was true and what were speculations. I disclosed this to the witcher, but he simply nodded and had me continue.

His behavior while I spoke was… odd, to say the least. I couldn't explain it, but I got the feeling that part of him was in deep thought, but he still seemed to be listening to every word. He would nod as though approving what I'd just said—like that part made sense to him. Other times he would lean back with his arms crossed, browed furrowed in a ponderous manner. Then he would ask questions.

"Why do you think they're strange?"

I blinked. I'd never said that. "What?"

"Just because you never see them? Because they don't surface as much as the rest of you do?" He didn't sound accusing. Rather, he had the air of a curious child asking how the world worked.

"I guess?"

The witcher nodded again, his arms still crossed. Then he reclined again into the armchair. I took that as my cue to go on. Next, I told him about the day their bodies were discovered. I skipped over the part with Alani. The witcher had told me not to leave any detail out, I knew. But I couldn't talk about that here, not with Marci standing in the room.

I'd told everyone that I saw Alani Covier standing outside her manor. I never told anyone that I'd spoken to her. I didn't know why I was scared to mention in now, but I was.

So I told the witcher about what Morris and the others told everyone. I recalled to him everything I'd heard, even the part about the face in the window. This time, the witcher didn't nod or lean back. He had a hand up to his face, gently running the back of his thumb over his bushy chin. It was then I noticed the medallion hanging below his neck. It was some kind of animal head, though I wasn't sure which. All I could tell was that it was some sort of fanged animal. I found myself staring at it.

Suddenly, his amber eyes flickered up to mine and I froze.

He looked away. Then he did something with his hand. I wasn't sure what. He bent a couple of fingers and gave his hand a curt little flick. He looked like someone imitating a mage. The witcher kept his hand low enough so that Marci didn't catch it.

A minute later, one of the younger housekeepers tiptoed in and whispered to Marci. I was close enough to hear. The fireplace in the main room had suddenly gone out. Marci harrumphed and left the room, shooing the young housekeeper out with her. I felt like that hadn't been an accident.

Once we were alone, the witcher was about to say something when I blurted out, "Did you do that?" His mouth was open in mid-word, but he quickly shut it and gave me a single nod. But he didn't pick up where he'd left off, maybe because he was expecting me to question him further. I did.

"Why?"

His eyebrows rose. I guess I'd hit him with an unexpected one.

"Because," he explained slowly, "children aren't entirely truthful when they know their parents are listening."

Son of a bitch just called me a child. But he was right in a way—I'd kept the encounter with Alani Covier from him. Now was my chance to redeem myself.

"Fine," I admitted. With another glance shot towards the door, I turned the face the witcher squarely and told him what I'd been keeping to myself. The witcher leaned forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He was still avoiding my eyes.

"Your dog sensed it," he declared when I had finished. "What kind of growl was it?"

"… What kind? It was just a growl?"

"What did it sound like? Sharp and aggressive, or more guttural and deep?" Benji could never growl deeply even if he wanted to. But I'd remember how he had sounded a bit odd that day.

"It was kind of nervous-sounding," I answered, my chin tightening as I struggled to clear up the murky memory. "It came from deep within his throat—all rumbly like."

"Ah." The witcher clasped his gloved hands together. It was enough to make a soft clapping noise. It was also enough to make me jump. "There's a spirit in there."

Goosebumps ticked across my arms. I ran a hand over my forearm. "Spirit?"

"Spirit, ghost, wraith, something in that family." I didn't like how casually the witcher spoke. I thought about the face in the window, and the goosebumps came back in full force. I rubbed my arm more vigorously. "The boy in the wall," the witcher continued. "He was in Alani's room?"

"Seems so."

"Did she say how old he was?"

I shook my head.

The witcher rubbed his beard with the back of his thumb again. "There's more than one," he concluded in a mumble. "I doubt the spirit of a boy, even a wrathful one, could kill an entire household. It'd have to be quick. No one escaped. Minutes, tops." Suddenly, he sat up. I'd been leaning forward without realizing it to catch his words, and I quickly flew back. I ducked my head sheepishly and glanced up to see him with a small smirk on his face. My heart fluttered and I cleared my throat quietly.

The witcher sat back and crossed one ankle over his other leg. "Multiple specters won't be fun to deal with," he began, his voice and face returning to a stony professionalism. "Very dangerous."

"I know," I said, when in truth I didn't know. I had no idea. "And, uh…" I figured we come to the part in the discussion where prices were discussed, but I had no clue how to price these kinds of things.

"What's your name?"

This time I was the one caught off guard by a question. That's right. I'd invited this witcher over into my home when neither of us even knew the other's name.

"Jemille," I answered.

"Jemille," he repeated. His face suddenly became gentle. I didn't know how he'd managed it, but suddenly he looked safe. "The more you keep from me, the more danger you put me in. I'll do what I can to help you, but I need you to return the favor."

I pressed my lips together, a feeling of guilt washing over me. It was not unlike the way a child feels when she's caught in a lie. Well, once again I was being compared to a child. But I did feel very small under this witcher's gaze.

"Sorry." My voice sounded pathetic.

"It's okay," he replied. "I know you didn't mean to keep it from me."

"How do you know?"

"Your face. You look scared."

I stopped pressing my lips together and tried to make my face neutral. This elicited a chuckle from the witcher, and I felt better. This time, I asked him how he knew there was more to the story. He did that annoying thing my professors sometimes did, and answered my question with another question.

"Why did you ask me for help? You and no one else? You've seen something they haven't." I nodded in response. And then I told him.

* * *

Curiosity and stupidity—I was born with no short supply of either. And because of that, I went to the manor the day after the bodies were discovered. The place was disturbingly deserted. I'd expected a few guards to be there investigating. But apparently people were happy with their lazy conclusions and had left it at that.

I didn't know what drew me to that place. Maybe a morbid curiosity. Maybe a desire to find out the truth. If I was to be completely honest, I felt a little guilty. I'd been talking to Alani the day before she died, so maybe I could have done something. It was a ridiculous notion. What could I have done, really? That didn't stop me from feeling that way.

It surprised me the way I walked up to that manor. I wasn't brave—far from it. For the longest time, I was afraid of the dark growing up. I couldn't stand uncovered windows at night. Anything to do with ghosts and dead people completely freaked me out. But I was embodied by some strange determination that day.

My eyes dashed from one window to another as I approached. I was absolutely certain that if I saw anything that looked like a face in any of them, I'd bolt. No one was supposed to be in the manor, after all.

And yet, I could have sworn, _could have sworn_ , I heard something as I came up to the porch. At the time I told myself that it was the sound of my shoes scraping against the steps. I was lying to myself, of course, because I was too scared to admit the truth. It sounded like a voice.

I thought I heard someone crying.

I stopped. Everything was quiet. There was no crying. The wood underneath the door was still stained. I was shocked by how far the pool had spread. It was unavoidable if one was to reach the door. It was dry now, but my steps sounded different as I walked over it. How could there have been so much blood?

I reached for the doorknob. My fingers touched its cold surface and quickly retracted as though it had burned me. It was all in my head, though. My heart was racing. My palms grew clammy like that one time I had climbed up to the highest tower of the academy with a few friends and looked over the railing.

I took a deep breath, but I was shaking so much it sounded like three consecutive breaths. Then, I puffed it out through my mouth, grabbed the doorknob, and turned it.

It was heavier than I expected. The thick wooden door began to inch open without much creaking. I watched the crack open wider between the frame and the polished wood. My neck was craned as I tried to catch as much detail of the manor's interior as I could. The manor was dark. The light streaming through the crack let me see the dark blob of dried blood on the ground.

And then I saw movement. A thin, pale hand grabbed the handle on the other side. Startled, I looked up. I only saw it for a heartbeat—dark coal eyes on an ashy, waxen face. Someone was staring at me. And teeth, stained and stretched in a wide grin. Then my arm was yanked as the heavy door slammed shut.

My feet must have left for a good three seconds as I shot up into the air like a cat. I shouted things I would never dare repeat in front of my mother. And I ran for my life.

I didn't stop until I reached my house. The adrenaline kept me from losing my breath. I waited outside my door long enough for the shaking to stop. Then I had to pretend nothing was wrong as I marched wordlessly to my room and paced for what seemed like an eternity.

I never told anyone. Whenever something strange happened, something funny or scary or sad or just plain interesting, we talked. But I _couldn't_ talk about it. And I had to admit that at some point, I curled up and cried because I was certain I had seen the face of evil through the crack in that door, and I was terrified that I had brought it with me.

So when the witcher came to town, I wanted him to do something about it. For Alani, and for me. I was scared.

It had _seen_ me.

* * *

The witcher didn't move the entire time I spoke. He kept his legs crossed, his hands resting over his midsection, but he didn't take his gaze from me. I, on the other hand, was a ball of nervous energy. My hands fidgeted, my eyes darted all over the place, and I often stumbled over my words. I didn't like bringing back the events of that day. He knew that.

"Thank you," he told me after I was done, "for telling me."

"Did it help?"

He gave a single nod.

I wasn't satisfied. "How?"

"It's given me a reason to do everything I can."

I started chewing the inside of my mouth. It was a horrible habit, but my nerves were melting into a wreck and I needed this tiny indulgence.

"Do you think it was looters?" I blurted out. The witcher tilted his head. "Looters," I repeated, my voice carrying a desperate tone. "That's who I saw?"

I saw the doubt clear in his eyes, but he said, "Maybe." With a small shrug, he added, "That manor is likely to be full of good things, especially since no one's returned to secure the Coviers' personalty." He uncrossed his legs and sat up. The armchair creaked underneath him. "Jemille," he said, and an involuntary shiver ran through me. "May I speak to your parents?"

"Why?"

"They're the ones who will be paying me, I presume. Unless you…?" He gestured at me with a single hand. I knew what he was thinking. To him, I probably seemed like the typical upper class 'princess'—funded entirely from daddy's coin purse. Well, he wasn't wrong.

Marci had returned, and I asked her to go fetch my parents. While we waited for them, I offered a little warning to the witcher. My father was a control freak and my mother was a ditz. The witcher grinned and even laughed. Hearing him made me laugh to, though it was more like a heavy exhale through my nose.

It was strange. He almost seemed human.

Marci returned with my mother and father. The atmosphere in the room was drastically different from what it had been earlier when it'd been just the witcher and me. My parents were uncomfortable in his presence the entire time. And they were irritated. At me for dragging this mess to their doorstep, and at the witcher for daring to propose the prospect of payment.

He was explaining the basic gist of his contract to them. The manor had a possible wraith infestation, he told them. It was going to be 3,300 florens per, with a possible increase of 300 to 400 depending on the variation of specter he might encounter.

The numbers shocked me. I'd expected maybe a few hundred florens at most. His proposed rates were close to what my monthly rent at one of Imperial's finer residential complexes was, and I was still sour about how expensive it was.

My father voiced my thoughts in a much more rude and brash manner. The witcher explained in a voice that never lost its soft composure that most of the money would never see his pocket. A huge portion of it would be used up for the gear and supplies he'd need to complete the contract. Then my father countered that we shouldn't have to be paying for his expenses.

The witcher paused. It was only for a handful of seconds. He was deliberating. I realized he was assessing us as clients. It was something that auditors did—if the clients were deemed too risky and if the auditor could afford to pass them up, he would. We weren't peasants desperate to get rid of a monster because our crops or our lives depended on it. It'd just been me—a pampered girl—that had come up to the witcher and asked for help. My parents didn't even want him to take up the contract.

The witcher's eyes flickered up to me, and then quickly went away. I wished I could read his thoughts.

"2,200 florens," the witcher proposed. "Flat rate, no matter what I find in the manor."

I didn't think he would even breakeven from that. I began feeling guilty. My father refused him again. The witcher was silent. I became mad.

"Why not?" I sounded pouty, and not stern like I'd intended. Everyone, my parents and the witcher, looked at me. My mother shot me a disapproving glare but I ignored her. My father told me to be quiet in his authoritative voice. He'd used it when I was a child and it would shut me right up, but I had grown.

I argued back. I made a scene. The witcher watched with raised eyebrows. And finally, my father caved in and agreed to 2,900 florens because deep down, he still held onto that 'daddy's little girl' concept and didn't want to be on bad terms with his 'little princess.'

Sometimes I felt bad about using my parents' money. Not this time.


	3. Inside

I was on my way out the door when the letter came in. The courier hurried up the flat, stone steps to where I was, his bag bouncing against his thigh. He already had the letter in hand and announced he had postage for one Jemille L'Ahearne. I told him that the letter was for me and held out a waiting hand to take the letter.

The fibers of the envelope felt textured and stately. It was sealed by a blot of wax stamped with the Imperial Academy's seal. I thanked him and, as I reached into my bag, mentally calculated how many miles he must have traveled to deliver the letter. I knew some people around here who didn't even bother taking that into consideration. They'd just fling a couple of florens towards the courier. That never seem right to me.

I paid the courier and hurried past him while he was still uttering his thanks. I didn't know if I was late. Hopefully, the witcher hadn't already set off towards the manor.

Frankly, getting my parents to let the witcher room overnight in our house was a losing battle that I never even bothered with. He understood that. Instead, he found a room at an inn closer towards the center of town. The place wasn't bad—it was a nice spot to take a few friends and have brunch.

I found the room the witcher was staying in from the innkeeper. When I knocked, no one answered. I rubbed my thumb incessantly over the nails of my other fingers as I wondered what to do. Before I could come up with a single idea, the door swung open.

"Could you stop that?" he asked immediately, tilting his head towards my nervous fingers. I clenched my hand into a fist.

"Sorry."

"What is it?"

"I…" To be honest, I already knew what he'd tell me. Or, at least, how he'd react. "I want to go with you." I expected him to outright refuse, slam the door, or even laugh. Instead, I got a question.

"Why?"

"Because… because I want to know what happened."

The witcher shrugged. "I could just tell you what I find."

I shook my head. A strange look crossed the witcher's face.

"You don't trust me to tell the truth?"

"No!" I said quickly. "It's just…" I didn't know how to explain it. I wanted to see with my own eyes. That was the only truth I'd be able to believe. That didn't mean I didn't trust the witcher. It was hard to explain, and I knew that if I tried I would just get the wrong message across. "It's just—."

The witcher suddenly shushed me with a sharp, soft hiss and a raise of his hand. He stepped from the door and beckoned me into his room. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if he was afraid of eavesdroppers, and walked in.

The smell hit me like a punch in the face. It had the pungency of spice, but it _stank_. I blinked several times, exhaling slowly to prolong having to breathe in. A voice in the back of my head, the shallow part of my brain, mumbled that a man with a smelly living space instantly went down several rungs of the attractiveness ladder. But then I saw the source of the smell—a small little metal bowl. Something, long since reduced to ash, was wafting off long tendrils of smoke. I stared, wondering why anyone would purposely perfume a room with this stench. A pillow sat on the floor in front of the bowl.

The window was open. I hurried to it. The witcher clamped a lid over the bowl. He turned back to me. "It boosts concentration. I was meditating," he said before I could get the question out. I nodded and opened my mouth to speak. Once again, he beat me to it.

"Let's just get one thing straight here, Jemille," he said, crossing his arms and suddenly looking very authoritarian. "You're not going into that manor with me. It puts you in danger and puts my life at risk. I can't juggle looking after you and dealing with whatever's in that manor at the same time."

I hated that—the 'you'll only get in the way' spiel. But he was right. I quickly deliberated. "Then… I'll wait outside the manor until you clear it out. And then I can take a look around."

"Not just outside," the witcher corrected. "A good distance away."

"Okay."

"And if there is any sign of trouble, even the _smallest_ hint, you run back into town."

"Sure."

The witcher studied me for a moment. I tried to glare at him with the same amount of sternness, though I probably came off more as pouty.

Finally, a hearty sigh escaped him and he shrugged once more. "Very well," he gave in. He lowered himself down and planted his knees onto the pillow. "I'll need another half hour," he told me.

"To, uh, meditate?"

"Yes. So either you leave or you stay quiet. And don't do that… _thing_ ," he wiggled his fingers together, "with your hand."

"Okay."

The witcher faced the bowl and rested his hands over his knees. He closed his eyes and took a slow, even breath. "And don't watch me," he suddenly scolded. "It's weird."

"Oh." I turned away and peered out the window. The air was a little fresher here anyway. For a while, I listened to the witcher's barely audible exhales and inhales grow slower. Then I focused on the view of the town outside. I was trying to stay quiet, but it was starting to get boring. Looking down, I reached and gently took the envelope from my bag. I cast a quick glance back over at the witcher, but he was deep into whatever stupor he had settled himself in. Still, I popped open the wax as quietly as I could and slipped the letter out.

The Imperial Academy had sent me my schedule for the next semester. My eyes scanned over the list of course and professor names. I grimaced at one class in particular—that one, I'd heard, was horrendously tough. At the same time, I was looking forward to being back on academy grounds. I'd finally be able to tell everyone about the—.

"What is that?"

An entirely incoherent sound burst out of my mouth as I clutched the schedule to my chest and whirled around. The witcher regarded me with a faint, amused smirk.

"You scared me!" I snapped accusingly.

"I can see that."

I turned away and quickly stuffed the schedule back into its envelope. "Just a letter," I answered, putting it back into my bag.

"Hm," the witcher grunted in response. He was pulling his swords over his shoulder when I turned back. I never had a good look at them until now, but they were _enormous_. And on the pommel of one, I saw the head of the same fanged beast. It was identical to the one around his neck. "Let's go," he told me as he checked the small vials strapped to his shoulder.

People stared as we exited the inn. It didn't take an oracle to predict what was going to come out of their mouths later. I wondered how long it would take before the news would travel to the part of the outer ring where I lived. Too soon.

The witcher didn't seem to notice or care as he marched past. I had to bring myself to a jog to keep up. We passed quickly through the town. I noticed how the busy street gave wide berth to the witcher.

"You study at the Imperial Academy?"

I glanced up at him. At first I was a little annoyed that he'd spied on my personal business. I'd expect that kind of intrusion from my nosy mother, not him. But I quickly reminded myself that the witcher was bringing me along with his grace and quickly pushed the bad feelings away. "Yes," I answered.

"What are you studying?"

I sighed. This was a question I was asked often, and each time was just as drab and unpleasant. "Business and Commerce," I answered in a very rehearsed reply.

The witcher grunted in reply. He didn't even pretend to act interested. I was actually grateful for that. But on the topic of schools…

"Did you go to a witcher school?" I suddenly asked.

"Where did you hear that?"

"A couple of years ago, another witcher stopped by Trivent. That's when people started saying all sorts of things about witchers. I, uh, heard about witcher schools from them."

My companion was silent for a few long seconds. Then, he said, "The people here know about as much about witchers as they do about the Coviers."

I immediately knew what he meant even without the spite in his voice. I started to regret bringing up the witcher school thing.

We didn't say anything for a while. The Covier Manor was just up ahead, beyond this row of tall houses. Once again, my mind unwillingly brought up the memory of the black eyes and yellowed grin. I began nibbling on the inside of my cheek.

"You know what?" the witcher said, breaking the silence. "You've never asked for my name."

"Oh… right…" It had completely slipped my mind for some reason. In some strange, prejudiced way, I was perfectly content with referring to the witcher as 'the witcher.' The same as one might refer to an animal they spotted off-road as 'the deer.' I still felt a little guilty. He did ask for my name, after all. I asked him. He told me his name.

"You're not from around here."

"No."

"Then what's with your accent?" He was faking it, I realized. No wonder it'd sounded odd to me at first.

"If I'd told you where I came from when we first met and spoke with a foreign accent, would you still have treated me the same way? Would you have even asked me for help?"

"I'm not adverse to different people," I said. "Lots of people from all over the North attend the Imperial Academy."

"You don't seem to understand." I could have sworn he sounded sad. Suddenly, the witcher stopped. I accidentally stepped ahead of him but quickly stopped in my tracks and turned back to him. He motioned me to come closer and I walked back. "Stay here," he told me. We were standing by a row of rosebushes. I looked to my right and saw the manor. It was completely still—a dark shape cutting through the bright sky like a slumbering beast. The dark windows that dotted its face looked like listless eyes. Looking at it now, I couldn't believe I had done something so stupid as walking up to that thing on my own.

"Remember what we agreed on," the witcher said. He waited until I looked back at him to continue, "Not a step closer until I'm done. You hear me?" I nodded. "No, say it."

"I hear you," I muttered.

"Right." The witcher pulled the medallion out from the recesses of cloth around his neck, pulled his collar open, and tucked it against his skin. "Wish me luck."

"Just hurry up!" I said in an exaggeratingly pushy tone. The witcher gave the straps holding his swords one last adjustment before trotting up the path to the manor. I watched his back grow smaller with distance. My eyes flitted up to the windows. The manor was still.

He came to the porch and paused. He was looking down, probably at the bloodstain. Then he glanced up. I realized he was staring at one of the windows. I looked too, but didn't see anything from where I was.

The witcher drew his sword. He pushed open the door and walked in. It closed slowly behind him. Then everything was still again. I clasped my hands together in front of my chest, pressing my icy fingers into my palms. Despite the sun, they had grown cold.

I was beginning to grow restless, worried. Nothing was happening where I was, but I was certain something was happening in that manor. Had he found it? The thing that killed the Coviers? Did it find him?

The rosebush in front of me, dead and dry, rattled. I jumped back. An equally scared bird took off from it. I snorted with embarrassment. At least nobody had seen that.

"Heard you saddled up with a witcher."

I whirled around, still edgy from being on high alert. The girl standing a short distance away had her hands on her hips in a very assertive way. It very much suited Irene, that annoying child of a woman. While most people fueled on food and water, she was powered by drama and attention.

"What?" I snapped defensively, and her eyes lit up.

"Mmhmm," she goaded. "I heard people saw you two leave the inn together."

"I'm helping him."

"Sure you are."

"Go fuck yourself on a cactus," I shot, turning back to the manor. I heard Irene gasp softly.

"I'm telling your mother you said that."

"Go ahead. Repeat it word-for-word." I heard her huff and stomp away, off to hunt for someone else to incite. My eyes scanned the manor, looking for any sign of change. Everything looked disturbingly calm. I tried to determine how long it had been since the witcher went in. Five minutes, maybe? What kind of progress had he made?

For the hundredth time, I thought about stepping past the dead rosebushes and getting a closer look at the manor. Also for the hundredth time, I stayed where I was and reminded myself to keep my word to the witcher. All in do time. The witcher would clear out the manor and I would get the answers I needed.

Suddenly, I saw movement out of one of the windows. My heart stopped. Someone was standing in it, looking out. Quickly, I ducked under the bush until only my eyes and the top of my head peeked out.

It was the witcher. He was looking this way and that from the window. Then he peered down at the rosebushes where I was. I raised my head. He waved. I raised my hand to wave back. And then I froze.

A second face appeared. Amidst the dark sea of glass, I saw someone standing behind the witcher, looking over his shoulder.

I pointed to warn him. I was also so terrified my arms were flailing like a person pretending to drown, so I didn't think my message came across very well. The witcher suddenly disappeared from the window. Whether he withdrew or was pulled back, I didn't know. It was a sign of trouble, so I ran. Towards the manor, that is.

It was dumb. It was so dumb. But at that moment, the strange sense of determination possessed me and I found myself once again going towards the manor. I'd felt accountable for Alani, and this time I felt accountable for the witcher. It was me who had dragged him into this.

My feet pounded over the porch. This time, when I grabbed the handle, I threw the door open without hesitation. Nothing was behind it but the dark manor. I stumbled through the threshold and drew in a sharp breath. Immediately, the air grew cold. My skin tingled with goose bumps, reacting to something I wasn't yet aware of.

I felt the ground shake as something thundered across it. I shrank back against the door. That was when the witcher appeared in the foyer, his brow furrowed deeply and his eyebrows crashed harshly over his eyes.

"What are you doing?" he roared at me. His faked accent disappeared completely and his true one surfaced. He sounded terrifying.

"But—there was—I saw—!" I was hyperventilating too much.

"You saw something and you should have run _that_ way!" He jabbed a finger towards the door, towards the town. His accent became local again, but he still sounded furious. I nodded, and my hand scrabbled for the doorknob. " _No!"_ the witcher snapped. "Don't open that door!" He let out a huff. A hand came up to his face, and it looked like he was able to pinch the bridge of his nose before he quickly lowered it like someone trying to get out of a habit. He muttered something under his breath, likely a swear.

Rearranging the medallion hanging just below his collarbones, the witcher said in a low voice, "There _is_ something in here." I immediately glanced up at the stairs, at the doorways, anywhere the darkness seemed the thickest. "It's not here right now," the witcher said. "It seems to be avoiding me—probably knows why I'm here and what I can do to it. I'd sense it for a second, and then it would move away. But you…" His glowing eyes bore down into me. "I don't think it's going to avoid you. That's why I can't let you leave. It might follow you, and that's going to make things a lot more complicated for me. So you stay close to me, you hear? You stray a little bit away, even just a few steps, and you're dead. Got that?"

I nodded quickly. I didn't know exactly what was going on but I knew that I'd fucked it up for the both of us. "Sorry," I said, and I couldn't keep my stupid voice from cracking.

Immediately the witcher's eyes softened. "I'm sorry too," he replied. "I shouldn't have let you come."

"Don't play the hero," I warned him. "If it ever comes down to choosing between you and me—."

"No," the witcher interrupted quickly.

"I employed you," I said in a firm voice. "So I call the shots, okay? If it ever comes down to you or me, you better damn well make it out of here."

The witcher looked upset. I didn't expect that. I thought he'd take my order immediately like a dog given a command, but he looked as though what I told him truly bothered him. It made me wonder if the brain in that head… What if those people who talked were wrong? What if it could still feel?

With a jerk of his head to indicate that we should get going, the witcher turned. I started moving to anticipate his quick gait, taking his instruction to stay close to heart. But the witcher didn't move, and I nearly smacked into his scabbards.

"Ahh," I heard him rumble quietly. "Those weren't there before." I peeked around him.

There were blotches on the ground—footprints. They were dark and clear enough so that we could see each individual toe. I don't know where the trail started, but from the prints it appeared someone or something had walked across the foyer.

Then two prints, two feet side-by-side, had stopped right behind the witcher before he'd turned around.

His hand flew up and pressed his medallion gently against his skin. I looked around the foyer, hands clenched into tight fists. Then, I spotted something. More footprints. This time, they were on the wall. And not only that. Handprints, wide and splayed, stained the wall in a way that suggested something humanoid had crawled up the wall.

The witcher took his hand away from his medallion. I noticed how he gave his sword hilt a few squeezes.

"Right," he said. "Stay close."


	4. Separated

Until now, I never really thought about what I was scared of. Usually the things that made my heart race and my palms sweat were day-to-day fears—deadlines, public speaking, or bugs that were larger than they were supposed to be. And then I suppose everyone has that innate fear of death, of pain and blood and finally coming to an unknown close.

But those weren't the things I thought about as the witcher and I made our way across the foyer. Something about the cold air and the tingling feeling of being watched made deep, buried fears stir up in my reluctant mind. The hills… a sickly sweet smell… a ditch.

"Jemille." I flinched and looked to him. He was staring at me, but it was hard to tell what his eyes were saying. "You see something?"

"No… why?"

"You started to slow down."

"I…"

"What were you thinking about?"

"Well…" I fought to recall what had gone through my head just seconds before, but it wouldn't come back to me. "I don't remember."

"Hm," the witcher grunted. "Well, if you do happen to remember, don't think about it."

"Why?"

"That's enough. Stay close."

I scratched my forehead and ran my hand through my hair as I cleared my head. My bag felt heavy from the things the witcher had given me. They were small pouches of what felt like powder. He'd told me that they were some kind of bomb to combat specters. They'd explode when thrown, so I had to be absolutely careful not to drop them.

We walked between the two curved staircases that hugged either side of the foyer. There was a wide pair of ornate wooden doors in front of us. The architecture was similar to Louise's house. Behind the doors should be a long hallway.

The witcher suddenly looked back. Startled, I did too. There was nothing. "Just checking," he mumbled nonchalantly before continuing on. I, on the other hand, followed looking a bit more perturbed.

We went through the doors, and I was right. There was a spacey hallway. Glass candle sconces dotted the entire length of the walls, which the witcher lit with a wave of his hand. On one side were a couple of doors. On the other hung a row of portraits. We walked past slowly enough for me to get a good look at all of them. There were five in all—one of each of the late Coviers. We passed by the paintings of Alani and her brothers. They were very well done. The artist and the oil paints captured them perfectly, but now in context they were nothing but creepy.

The last two were of the lord and lady of the house. We had just passed by Lady Covier's painting when we heard it—scratching in the wall behind us. The witcher whipped around to face it, his hand flying up to his neck. His medallion was buzzing so violently that even I heard it, thrumming like an angry hornet. The scraping stopped when we confronted it. The witcher remained on high alert. He walked over to the wall and pressed a hand flat against it. Then he lifted it and pressed it against another part of the wall as though he were feeling for something.

"You heard that too, right?" he asked me.

"Yeah. Was that…?"

"The boy? I don't know." His hand pressed tighter against the wall. "Hmm," he mumbled to himself. "This spot in particular…" He flipped his hand over and pressed the back of it to the wall.

As I watched him, the coldest chill ran through me. It made me actually shudder. Quickly, I looked from one end of the hall to the other and saw nothing. I glanced over my shoulder. Then I paused, and looked again. Slowly, I turned.

Before, each portrait had stared down at me with stern, even bored looks. Now they couldn't, because the eyes of each one had been scratched out. And across the top of Lady Covier's portrait was a word that was messily clawed into the canvas: _IMPOSTER_.

All I could manage was a soft, shaky, "Uh…"

The witcher turned and saw the torn portraits. He read the message over Lady Covier's head and gave his own a little tilt. "Why?" he asked, as if someone was there. And maybe they were.

Suddenly, Lord Covier's portrait jerked. It ripped from its fixture and smashed against the opposite wall. Above the sound, I could have sworn I heard a woman screaming.

The witcher stepped back as the portrait whipped by his head, tussling his hair. He reacted even before the painting hit the wall. I felt his hand grip my arm painfully as he pulled me behind him. The other hand had thrown a small, pouch-like bag. Upon impact, it showered the hall in a rain of shimmering silver dust. Then, as quickly as everything had happened, it all stopped. Silence filled the hallway as the dust settled over the carpeted floor.

Straightening up, the witcher muttered, "Damn." He had that same tone a friend of mine once used during a fishing trip whenever the hook came out of the water empty. His vice-like grip finally released my arm, though I still felt what I knew was going to be a bruise throbbing under my skin. He stepped over to the painting of Lord Covier and daintily lifted it by the splintered frame. He flipped it over to look at the ruined image.

"What do you make of it?" he asked me.

"An angry ghost vandalized it," I said unhelpfully.

"Yes, I know," the witcher sighed. He looked back at the portrait of Lady Covier and gestured a hand towards it. "What's the dirt on her?"

"Huh?"

"I know you lot must have gossiped up a storm about these people. What have you heard about her?"

"Most people just talked about how much young she was compared to Lord Covier," I answered. "They were around 15 to 20 years apart in age."

"That's not too unusual amidst the upper class," the witcher remarked.

"I guess not, but some have claimed she started out as his mistress."

The witcher looked at Lady Covier's portrait. The gashes across her eyes nearly tore straight through the thick canvas. "To be a mistress, there needs to have been a wife," he said quietly.

I didn't hear him, as I was staring at the woman standing at the end of the hall. "Who's she?"

She was too far for me to see her clearly. All I could really make out was her long black hair and simple dress. The witcher turned and looked at her. He must have recognized her, because a soft, "No," escaped his lips, frail and frightened.

Then, all of the candles went out.

I was too terrified to move. In that single, fleeting moment of darkness, I could have sworn something touched me. And then the hallway was filled with light again. I blinked. It was just the witcher and I standing there. The woman was gone.

His breathing was labored, I realized. He turned and looked at me, around me, and then back down the hall. His eyes were wild with anger. He suddenly smashed his fist through the wall. I jumped, afraid. What had gotten into him?

"You think that's going to stop me?" he shouted into the air, yanking his fist out. Wood splinters and plaster crumbling to the floor. "You just made a big, _big_ mistake!" Only silence responded.

With a shaking sigh, the witcher lowered his hand. He turned to me. I was still wide-eyed and paralyzed. "Jemille," he said slowly. "When you start to think about it, stop right away."

"What…?"

"When you start thinking about things that scare you, things that get under your skin, you _stop_. It could be things you haven't thought about in years, or things you didn't even know you were scared of. They'll start getting drawn out. It's trying to learn. That's how it gets you." The witcher gave his head a sharp shake and pressed his fingertips against his temple as though he were trying to ward off a bad headache. "So don't think about it."

I gave a wordless nod. The witcher gave his head another rough shake and turned. "Let's get moving," he said. "Upstairs, to Lord Covier's study. Maybe we can get some answers there."

As I followed him, I didn't dare voice my question. Had this thing, this seemingly corporeal monster, discovered the witcher's fear? I thought about the woman we had seen and the witcher's reaction to her. Why had he been afraid to see her?

A soft scuffling caught my attention. Still close to the witcher's heels, I looked back just in time to see something small retract back into the hole the witcher had punched into the wall—a child's hand.

"Keep up," I heard him say, and turned back.

The hallway made a sharp left and continued on to the door at the very end. I wondered if the witcher had already gone through the doors we passed when he was on his own, or if he was simply just ignoring them. The door at the end opened to a wide room, a bit like the foyer but smaller. Doors flanked either side of this new room, and a straight stairwell leading up was on the opposite end from where we emerged. The entire layout of this manor confused me. Directing myself around in large buildings was never my strong suit, and the first year at the academy had consisted of day after day of conquering mazes.

We hurried up the stairs, which led to a second floor of walkways that framed the edges of the room. I rested a hand on the painted wooden banister and looked out at the wide, crystal chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling.

"Which way is the study, do you know?" the witcher asked me. I looked around the room. There were four doors—one on each wall. So many damn doors.

"Not sure," I answered. "But if I had to guess, it's either deeper in or one of those doors." I pointed towards the doors to the left and right of the stairs.

"Then we'll check those first, and then—." A soft creak and delicate tinkling caused the witcher to stop. We both stared at the center of the room. The chandelier had begun to swing gently. The crystal teardrops that hung from it clattered together like rods on a wind chime. As the chandelier swung to the side, I could see past it for just the briefest of moments. Someone was standing on the walkway across from us.

No, wait. The banister was behind them. They were floating.

Something was wrong with them. It was their head. They were holding it up like something wasn't quite right with their neck. A dirty gown billowed over their body, stopping just at the ankles where bare feet hung under. The last thing I saw before the chandelier swung back was a yellow grin and black eyes fixated on me.

The chandelier swayed out of the way again and the figure was gone.

The witcher wasn't convinced. His sword was poised in one hand, his other holding up a sign I couldn't recognize. He ordered me to get away from the edge. I hurried away from the banister and pressed my back against the wall.

The chandelier had stopped swinging, but now it was shaking. The witcher immediately cast something around it, some kind of glowing series of runes that formed a circle. The shuddering crystals immediately slowed as if time itself had begun to decelerate. Then, the witcher threw the same small pouch and covered the chandelier in a cloud of silver. Amidst the dust, I saw something appear.

A small figure was crouched in the chandelier. I thought it was a child, a boy maybe. As soon as the dust settled, it uncovered its face. It was indeed a child, but its cheekbones jutted out and its eyes were sunken. The dead skin over its face was stretched too tightly over its skull.

Exposed, it began to wail a shrilly, ear-splitting screech. The screech was drowned out by an explosion, loud because it happened around me. It happened so quickly I didn't even have time to move. I only saw the explosion of plaster and the two arms that burst out from either side of me.

My vision was obscured as one arm came over my face. The other I felt locking over my neck, forcing my scream down as I was suddenly yanked back through the wall.

The skin over my face was icy cold. My feet scraped uselessly against the ground as something dragged me back too fast for me to fully regain my footing. I heard the witcher cry out. Behind me, I could hear a rattling wheeze like someone trying to draw breath through a damaged throat.

The arm shifted and fingers pressed painfully into my face as though they were trying to dig through my skull. My hand came up, just barely able to fend the fingers away from my eyes.

Strangely, my moment of blinding panic disappeared and suddenly I could think straight. Maybe it was the shot of adrenaline that helped. I told myself that I needed to get out of this thing's grip before it tore my face off. There was only one way to do it.

I had a baby cousin who didn't like being picked up. He was on the verge of turning two and had decided that he preferred to stumble around on his own two feet. He had a method to escape pesky arms, and it worked most of the time.

I stopped struggling. I ignored the pain of nails digging into my skin. And then I let my legs go limp and dropped down on my bottom. My weight pulled me away from the arms and I hit the ground. Flipping onto my knees, I scrabbled onto my feet and ran blindly. And then I tripped over something.

I think that saved me, though. One of the thing's feet kicked the back of my head as it soared over me, lunging at where I used to be. It moved impossibly fast.

As I stood, it noticed where I was and turned. One of the bombs was in my hand and I threw it in a way that would have made an athlete laugh themself to death. But it hit the thing and shot silvery powder everywhere. The thing, just beginning to lunge again, moved slowly like the chandelier had. I had a good look at it for a second, though I wish I had just run instead.

Twisted with inhuman rage, I was looking at the face of a woman. Not the same one we'd seen in the hall. That one had looked normal, albeit out of place. This woman was dead. Her stained teeth were bared and dark trails leaked out of her mouth. Her hair surrounded her head in dry, spidery wisps, and I think her neck was broken. That was the only way her face could've tilted so far.

Common sense returned to me and I bolted. I burst through doors and hallways, unsure of where I was going or how many turns I had taken before I stopped. My lungs were on fire. There was either blood or sweat on my face.

But at least the thing was gone. And so was the witcher. I was alone.

I paused to look around and listen. Everything was silent. I didn't dare call out for the witcher in case the manor's other inhabitants would hear me as well. Looking around, I noticed that I was in some sort of guest room. There was a simple queen-sized bed with its headboard to the wall. A nightstand was next to the bed and a wardrobe stood at the opposite end of the room.

With a quick glance around, I walked over to the nightstand. I wasn't quite certain what I was looking for, but I looked anyway. The top of the nightstand was bare, but when I opened the single drawer, I found two pieces of paper. An edge on each was ripped and fuzzy. They had once been together. I laid both out on top of the wardrobe and lined the torn edges together.

The paper was a death certificate. It was dated 26 years ago. I didn't recognize the name. It was male, and the surname was Covier. The cause of death was some kind of accident—I couldn't tell exactly what. Five long lines smeared the ink down the paper, obscuring most of the words. They looked kind of like…

I opened my hand and hovered it over the paper, lining my fingers with the top of the smears. Then, I moved my hand down the paper. Yeah, they looked a lot like—.

Something flew out from below the nightstand. A tiny hand scrunched the paper and quickly dragged it back under. I jumped back from it, ducking down to peer underneath the nightstand. The space between its legs was empty.

When I straightened up, something knocked into the top of my head. I let out a squeak as I swatted wildly at it and whirled around. It was a rope that dangled from the ceiling.

More specifically, it was a noose.

I looked around the empty room. That thing had _not_ been in here seconds earlier. I would have noticed such a macabre detail. Reaching up, I gave the loop a curious tug. I couldn't help it. The thing suddenly came loose from the ceiling, showering me in tiny pellets and crumbles of plaster. I sputtered, brushing chalky pieces from my face and lips. Then, I looked down at the limp rope in my hand and dropped it. It crumpled to the floor.

I didn't know why, but the air was suddenly peaceful. It didn't feel cold. I almost felt… safe. My mind started wandering as I stepped over the rope and made my way to the window. Outside, I could see the sprawling landscape beyond Trivent's borders. The grass rolled in lazy hills.

Hills… a sweet smell. And then a ditch.

* * *

 _Is she okay? What happened? Where did all those scratches come from?_

 _She's fine, just a little shaken up. They were playing out in the hills behind the barn, her and Louise. The dirt gave away and she slipped down into a ditch._

 _I saw some of the town guardsmen rush out there._

 _There was something else. Do you remember Anton?_

 _The vagabond drunk?_

 _Heard some people say he'd gone missing. Seems he was out there in that ditch for a while—Louise said they had smelled something strange._

 _He was in that ditch when…? That's awful! She must have seen him!_

 _She was still passed out next to him when I got there._

 _Do you think we should get a doctor? Just in case? That experience won't sit well with a child._

 _I think we should get a mage. Have them suppress it down._

 _Won't that be dangerous?_

 _It's more dangerous to let her live with the memory._

* * *

My eyes fluttered open. I was still standing at the window. What a strange hallucination. Yet at the same time, it all felt familiar. I think… I was starting to remember something.

A deep, rattling breath caught me attention. My eyes opened wide and I turned.

She was standing behind the doorway. Her yellow teeth were exposed and her dangling head twitched violently. Before I could do anything, what felt like a gust of powerful wind hit me and threw me against a wall. All sensation left my body and I could only sag onto the ground.

Propped against the wall, I could still see her. But she didn't move. The door suddenly slammed shut, and I was alone in the room.

Only, I wasn't alone.

Still paralyzed, I saw something underneath the bed stir and begin to drag itself out.


	5. Talk

It's hard to forget the unforgettable. Something horrific as that should not have been lost on the mind. But I was taken to a mage.

He relaxed me, and then asked me to recall what I saw in the ditch. I did. Then he would move his hands and say things I didn't understand. After that, he asked me to recall again. I did. More hand movements, more words. Recall again. I did.

Recall again. I did. But it was getting harder. Things were getting fuzzy, and it showed in my words.

Recall again. I struggled. It was like trying to peer through murky pond water.

Recall again. Recall what?

That was how I forgot. That was how the image was put to rest, because they were right—no child should have to grow up with that kind of memory.

But now I remember. The witcher had told me not to think about it but I did. She made me, digging my fear out of the recesses of my mind in a way I could not fathom. And now, I remember.

When I was a child, I had fallen into a ditch. I rolled while dead leaves and twigs stuck to me, and dirt splattered onto my face. When I came to a stop, I was at the bottom. The first thing I noticed had been the smell. And then I turned my head to realize I wasn't alone.

It was that face that now emerged from the shadow of the bed, following two twisted, rotting arms. Two white, dead eyes pushed deep in a bloated face. A scavenger had gotten to him, but only a part of him.

As a child, that face had scared me because I hadn't seen it as a dead body. I'd thought it was a monster staring at me. My imagination had run away with me in those few seconds before I blacked out.

But now, it wasn't my imagination that had him coming for me. His arms dragged against the ground, the floor peeling disintegrated flesh from the bone. There was no other noise but the sound of him pulling himself across the floor. He was coming at me and I still couldn't move.

Don't think, the witcher had warned me. That's how it gets you. The dead eyes stared at me as they came closer. No sound. Not even a groan. Just the raking of his decaying flesh across the wooden boards with each pull.

He wasn't supposed to be here, I tried telling myself. They'd buried him at the graveyard by the church, in one of the small graves along the edge by the fence. I remembered that too.

Then, it seemed for a second that he disappeared. It happened between blinks. One moment, he was gone. Then he was there again, still coming for me. He was close now, almost to my foot. Panicked, I wondered what he would do once he reached me. I didn't want him near me. But my foot wouldn't retract, and he was almost there. I told myself again that he wasn't supposed to be here.

If my thoughts had brought him here, maybe they could also take him away. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the sounds of flesh scraping against the floor.

He was buried in the churchyard. They'd carried him out of the ditch on a wooden board with a cloth to hide him from the eyes of curious children. His tombstone was small and unmarked. They'd wrapped him in that cloth and dumped heap after heap of dirt over him. He was there, not here.

Something touched my foot. Immediately, I pulled it back. Then my eyes flew open. I could move.

And that thing… it was gone.

I rolled onto my hands and knees. Stumbling to my feet, I did one final sweep around the bare floor and hurried out of the room. I wasn't completely sure if the nightmare was gone, but I didn't want to stick around and find out. I needed to find the witcher before that thing, that woman, found me again.

I came across a short hallway. One end opened out to a large room. The other was a dead end with nothing but a small table and a dusty vase. I crept towards the large room, one hand in my bag and my fingers wrapped around a pouch of that silver stuff.

The room was much brighter in comparison. Sheets of light slipped in between the half-opened blinds and illuminated the flower-printed furniture. I tiptoed along the edge of the room, watching everything with a keen suspicion. On the other side of the room was an open archway. Beyond it was a large rectangular area—a room between rooms that wasn't quite a hallway. This place was way too confusing. It made me appreciate the cramped living spaces at the academy a little more.

Vases of wilting, neglected flowers sat in pockets along the wall. A small tea table held an abandoned serving tray and dirty cups. I suddenly noticed the dark smears on the floor. This was probably where some of the servants had been found. A shiver crept through me and I threw a quick paranoid glance back at the archway. I thought I heard something and tensed.

Silence. I wasn't sure I heard anything at all.

Without waiting for a definitive answer, I hurried through the closest door. I didn't know why I was flitting from door to door like this. In my flustered mind, the more I moved the better. Maybe it would've been more wise to sit in one spot and wait for the witcher to find me, but I didn't want to take that risk. There was no guarantee that it would have been the witcher who got to me first.

There was a small desk by the window. A little bookshelf with a handful of books that looked as though they would crumple to dust at the slightest touch. Everything about this room looked _withered_. Gray. It was bizarre. I felt as though I was in a room that had been trapped and forgotten by time. And the strangest thing of all was the small journal that sat on the desk. It looked brand new. A blot of fresh color on old, faded paper.

I walked over to it. I don't know why I felt so compelled to stop and read everything I came across. These things lying around—they weren't here by coincidence. It was as though they had been laid out on purpose. A breadcrumb trail.

The book was a diary. The owner of the diary had possessed a very small, neat handwriting. I looked at the date of one of the early entries. It was from 22 years ago. 22 years? That was a little before I had been born.

I skimmed the entry. The writer, I assumed, was female. She was talking about her upcoming wedding. So this was Lady Covier's diary, then? I thought for a second. Their oldest son had been 14. It seemed strange that they waited eight years before having their first child. But people were different, I reminded myself. There were a lot of things we didn't know about the Coviers.

I flipped through a couple of pages until my eyes settled onto an entry where Lady Covier wrote about the birth of her son. Ah, this was familiar territory.

Until I saw the date. It was only two years after their marriage—20 years ago. I read the entry more carefully and stopped when I saw the name of the child. It was the same name I had seen on the death certificate.

I skipped ahead again. There was a particular entry that caught my eye. The handwriting was different. It was sloppier. The lines were crooked, written by a distressed hand. This time, I stopped to read each word.

 _An accident, they told me while their eyes portrayed cruel, obnoxious pity. An accident. ACCIDENT. That is the worst part of all. My son is dead because of a little bit of negligence. Whose fault was it? The carriage driver? The spooked pony? The craftsman who built the damn carriage? Me?_

 _My husband does not share in my grief. Understandable. He did not care for our son as I did. SON. MY SON IS DEAD._

 _IT WAS AN ACCIDENT._

 _That's what they said._

 _And they haven't stopped. They're still talking. I hear them. I can still hear them. I am a mother who lost her child. I am in a prison that no one else can see, so they do not care. They just talk. TALK. That is all they do! The bars are closing in. I am losing my mind to grief and pain, and THEY JUST TALK._

 _THEY JUST TALK._

 _THEY JUST TALK._

 _THEY JUST TALK._

The rest of the page was filled with those three words, repeating over and over again. Towards the bottom of the page, the pen had left indentions in the paper so heavy they were still there. I could feel them.

I flipped the page. The same three words. They just talk.

I flipped again. This page was mostly empty. There were just two lines. Two short lines.

 _I will show them. I will show you._

Cold pinpricks ran across my skin. I wanted to close the book, seal the words underneath the cover. But I couldn't because new words were running across the page like an invisible hand was writing them in real time.

 _I know where you are I'm coming don't run._

Well I ran all right. I bolted with one of those pouches in hand, throwing glances over my shoulder. Something was catching up with me. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it.

Hallways. So many hallways. Countless times I was tempted to veer into one of the rooms and slam the door, but I knew that would only put me in a trap. At one point, that feeling of dread that kept chasing at me heels got so bad I ended up throwing down the pouch. Or maybe I dropped it. Whatever happened, the hallway behind me ended up in a cloud of silver dust. I didn't even look back because I was afraid of seeing what might emerge from it.

I kept running until eventually my legs began to tire. The feeling that something was coming after me was gone and, frankly, I was out of breath. So I stopped. As I slowed, gasping through my burning throat, I wondered what that had been about. Nothing had actually attacked me. All that happened was that I'd run a marathon through half the mansion and painted a portion of it in silver. Maybe I was starting to lose my mind.

I stopped to catch myself on the wall and quickly pushed away from it, remembering what happened last time I was close to the wall.

The witcher had told me that if I ever strayed from him, even for a second, I'd be dead. But here I was, still stumbling around in this damned place—very much alive. A few days ago, nobody had been able to survive. But then again, they weren't aware of what had gotten into the manor.

Even if I did, that couldn't be the only reason I was still alive. Of course not. But I'd also come with a witcher. Even if we were separated, the silver bombs he'd given me had saved my hide. That couldn't have been it either.

But there was another reason—the biggest reason I was still here. It was just a guess. The very thought sent chills through me, but it made the most sense.

I was being shown something. The truth, it seemed, behind the Coviers. That thing, that woman, was telling me something. She'd shown me her journal.

There was a corner up ahead. I headed slowly towards it, weary and worried and just _sick_ of everything about this manor. I'd nearly been killed countless times in this place. I thought I'd seen the worst. And then I turned the corner.

I saw him. The witcher.

Relief flooded through me. My shoulders dropped. I didn't realize that I'd tensed them so much. My steps quickened.

The witcher was at the end of the hall, which ended with a door. His back was turned towards me. I nearly reached him. I opened by mouth to call out to him.

"Jemille!" the witcher cried. But the strange thing was that his voice didn't come from the witcher standing there. It was coming from behind me. I froze. The witcher in front of me didn't move. Then I heard his voice again. It was slow, soft. Tense.

"Jemille," he said again. "Don't get any closer to it. Listen to me. Do exactly as I say. Turn around. _Very_. Slowly."

I blinked. I didn't understand what the hell was happening. Who was behind me? Who was in front of me? All I knew was that the witcher with his back turned, standing just a few feet away from me, suddenly gave me a bad feeling. I started turning, my feet inching along the ground.

As I did, I saw him standing there at the bend where I had come from. He was holding his silver sword. His body was poised like a rabbit hiding in a bush, waiting to see if the predator noticed it. One hand was held out towards me. His brow was furrowed in a frown, but his eyes conveyed fear. _Fear_.

"Walk to me. Slowly," he said, each word tapping the air with suppressed urgency. "Don't look back. Don't make any sudden movements. Just walk."

I did as he said, my feet barely skimming over the thin carpet. My hands were fists against my side. I heard noise behind me. The witcher—no, I didn't know what it was—had turned too. Scraping feet trailed mine. Something was breathing in thin, shaky gasps. I swore I felt it on my neck.

When I passed a candle sconce, my eyes flitted to the side to glance at the shadow that the flickering light threw onto the wall. I saw my shadow, stretched from my own barely moving feet.

There was something behind me, following closely. It wasn't the witcher. I didn't know what it was, but I knew its head shouldn't have been twitching that much.

"Jemille." I looked back at him. His gaze held mine. "Just look at me. Keep going. You're doing good." I wasn't even halfway there.

Something touched my shoulder blade. I flinched, the smallest of movements. The shaky breathing turned into the soft hiss of someone sucking air through gritted teeth. My heart raced. Had I messed up?

"Look at me." My head moved back. I didn't even know I had been slowly turning it back. "That's it. You're okay."

The hissing stopped, and whatever was behind me began to giggle softly. Something touched me again. This time, it wasn't a light brush. There was a hand gripping my shoulder. I wanted to whimper.

"Just keep walking," the witcher said. His eyes left mine. He was looking at whatever was behind me. "This is between us," he said, and I knew he wasn't talking to me anymore. "You leave her alone."

The hand tightened. My mouth pressed into a thin line.

His amber, slit eyes returned to mine. They were comforting. "I came from a witcher school," he told me. "I was trained on how to use a sword and aim with a crossbow. I was fed herbs that enhanced my reflexes, sharpened my senses. They dulled my feelings, but only so that I won't feel fear when I should. I learned how to use alchemy and magic to fight monsters." My feet moved, one step after the other. "The boys I grew up with became my close friends. I don't know where they are anymore, but I hope I'll see them again."

He offered me an encouraging smile. And then suddenly, he lunged forward. He grabbed me and yanked me towards him. I was thrown down. My hands came up just in time to catch myself as I hit the ground. I heard the witcher shout and rolled over to see what was happening.

I only saw him for a second. He was on his back, dragged across the ground at an impossible speed. I heard the sound of his boots scraping against the ground. It lasted for only a second. Then the door at the end of the hall slammed shut and he was gone.

I rolled back onto my belly so I could push myself up. But I pushed myself so hard I launched myself forward and stumbled into the wall. I turned towards the door and staggered towards it like a drunkard.

Noises leaked out from behind the door. I heard the crash of something heavy being smashed. The witcher roared something, but I couldn't make out the words.

I slowed to a stop in front of the door and tried the doorknob. It wouldn't work. Then, things went eerily silent inside. I held my breath and listened.

I heard a woman's voice, soft and pleasant. She called the witcher by his name.

"Don't hurt me," she pleaded.

"You're not real," the witcher replied. His voice was punctuated by his heavy breathing. It sounded like he was shaking.

"Look at me." Then, in a tight voice, she demanded, "What's happening to me?"

"You… you're aging." The witcher sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

"I'm dying." The doorknob suddenly became ice cold. I pulled my hand back. "Why did you let me die?"

"No, I… No! You're not real!" The witcher's voice grew louder and louder. "You're not her! How _dare_ you use her against me!"

The woman began crying. Her voice became shrilly as she begged the witcher not to hurt her. I felt sick listening.

The witcher bellowed again that she wasn't real. It sounded as though he were trying to convince himself. There was a loud boom that shook the door in its frame. I jumped back. The woman screamed. She called his name. She told him she loved him. She pleaded for him to stop hurting her. I turned away from the door. Something horrible was happening in there and I couldn't bear to listen.

But I couldn't imagine his agony until I saw him come out of that room. The door flew open and he was leaning on the doorframe as if it were the last thing holding him up. He was trembling so hard that he dropped his sword. It clattered loudly onto the floor. The witcher made to pick it back up, but sank onto his knees instead. His hands were bunched into claws against the ground.

And he was crying.

I wanted to say something. I didn't. The words just failed me.

Then, the witcher's hand moved. He grabbed his sword. He raised it and jabbed its tip into the ground. The witcher rose, leaning heavily on the blade. Then, he wrenched it out, held it above his head, and slid it back into its sheath. His eyes were red. Pain etched out the lines of age on his face that had been previously invisible. For the first time, he looked old to me.

A red shine caught my eye, and I realized he had a bloody cut on his neck. Still speechless, I could only point at it. The witcher tilted his head and touched it with the tips of his fingers. Looking down at his wet glove, he announced in a heavy voice, "It's done."

"You mean…"

"Lady Covier is no more."

"Lady Covier?"

The witcher reached down to a satchel on his belt and pulled a journal from it. This one was different. Its edges were messy from the loose pieces of paper that were crammed between the pages. Tossing it to me, he said, "You'll get your answers in there." The witcher exhaled heavily and adjusted the sword strap that ran diagonally over his chest. Disturbed by the movement, his medallion emerged from behind his collar. The witcher didn't fix it, either because he didn't notice or didn't care. I thought I saw something else sharing a chain with the medallion, but I didn't get a good look before he spoke again.

"Go outside," he told me. "I'll meet you in a second."

"What are you doing?"

"The boy," the witcher said, "has to be sent off too. It shouldn't be too much of an effort. Just make sure he doesn't follow you out."

Right. How was I supposed to tell? The witcher walked me to the main foyer. He stayed at the top of the stairs while I descended. Before I walked out, I stole a quick glance over my shoulder. I noticed how heavily he leaned on the bannister.

* * *

I didn't know what I expected when I stepped out of the manor. Peace? Quiet? There wasn't any of that.

What I saw was a gathering of guards at the foot of the manor's long path. Behind them were townsfolk. I recognized some of the faces. They were waiting for something, but it appeared they were too scared to get close to the manor.

I paused and saw their faces change when they spotted me. They looked like they were surprised to see me alive. I couldn't blame them.

The guards were waving me down, calling me to get away from the manor. I tucked the journal into my bag and trotted down the path. My parents were pushing their way through the guards. It suddenly came to me that I never told them I would be going into the manor. It wasn't exactly something I had planned this morning. Yeah, it had been a completely dumb thing to do, but there was no need for this kind of overreaction.

My mother rushed forward with a look like she hadn't seen me in years. "Did he hurt you?" she asked.

I assumed she meant the ghost. "She," I corrected automatically. "It was a—."

"Is he still in there?" Her wide, frantic eyes flickered down to my body. "Did he… did he touch you?"

"What?"

"That man, he-he…"

I was slow on the realization. Exhaustion from nearly being killed over and over again could do that to someone. "It wasn't a man," I insisted. "It was a ghost, or—or a wraith? I don't know."

My mother stared at me. "The _witcher_ ," she said. "Where is he?"

It was slowly dawning on me. I looked past my mother at the guards. Their weapons were already drawn. They weren't waiting on the witcher to pay him, or thank him for getting rid of the Coviers' murderer. They were going to arrest him. Or kill him, even.

"What's going on?" I demanded. "What are you all doing?" That's when I learned of what happened out here while the witcher and I had been in the manor.

Irene had—just what was wrong with her? She had told everyone that the witcher had seduced her. Taken advantage of her. Rape was essentially what she was implying, but she didn't seem to want to use such an ugly word. The witcher had raped her and everyone was set alight. Did she spread those lies for attention? Maybe to bask in the pity that people now showered her with.

But there was no evidence. No logic. The witcher had been in the manor all day. That didn't matter, apparently. All that was needed were words. Talk.

I looked back at the manor. He was still in there, and he didn't know what was waiting for him out here. He wouldn't fight back—that would involve hurting innocents. The witcher would never do that, even if that was what these people were doing.

Turning back, I told my parents I needed to head back in. Find the witcher. Of course, they were horrified. Why would I do that? The witcher was dangerous.

What was that word? Irony.

I told them I was going to get the witcher to come out. They still didn't agree, but I had long since outgrown the need for their approval. I headed back up to the manor, ignoring their calls. It was funny, but the closer to the manor I got, the more they sounded like the bleating of livestock. Sheep, almost.

He was sitting on one of the curved staircases in the main foyer. His hand was by his neck, worrying something between his fingers. It was that thing around his neck—not the medallion, but the other thing. As I looked, I thought I saw gold. But then his eyes came up, and mine pulled up to meet them.

"Did you…? You know."

The witcher nodded. His fingers had stilled around the thing. "This place is cleared." He must've read my face like a book, because he added, "What's wrong?"

It was difficult for me to say it. I never liked delivering bad news, and this was horrible, horrible news. I opened my mouth. The start of the sentence never came to me. Finally, I nodded towards the door behind me and said, "You can't go out there."

"And why not?"

"Something… happened."

The witcher raised his head, beckoning for me to continue. So I explained to him, as best I could, that there were people waiting outside for him. When I told him why, he lowered his head. He dropped the thing between his fingers and it, with the medallion, fell heavily back against his chest.

"Why am I not surprised?" I heard him mutter. He raised his head back up and asked, "So why are you here then?"

It was a strange thing to ask, I thought. "Because," I told him, "they're wrong. You didn't do anything bad."

"I see. And you didn't think that, in the event the lovely mob out there found out what you're doing, you would find yourself on the unfortunate end of their near-sighted judgment?"

I didn't like what he was trying to imply. "They're all crowded near the front," I said. "If you go out through the garden at the back, you could cover some distance before they realize that you're gone."

The witcher gave me a single nod and rose to his feet. "Back garden, huh?" he said. "Thankfully this manor's on the edge of town. Figure I'll be able to reach Maecht before sundown." He walked just a few steps before I remembered.

"Wait!" I already had the coin purse in my offering hand by the time he turned. He looked down at it like I was holding out a frog or something. "It's not the amount you were promised," I said apologetically, "but it ought to be better than nothing."

The witcher glanced back down at the pouch in my hand. "Two wraiths," he told me. "One was much stronger than the other, but we agreed on a flat rate, didn't we? There had better be 4,400 florens in there." Then, he shed the humor with a weak smile and a shake of his head. "I'm not taking it."

"But…"

"You know," the witcher continued in a louder voice, "if more people were like you, think of how much better the world would be. Offer me your word instead of coin." He turned completely towards me. "Hold onto what you have. Your innocence. Your kindness. And yes, even your naiveté. That's what the world needs—not armies or witchers. Do I have your word?"

If that was what he wanted, that was the least he deserved. I nodded.

The witcher began to turn back. "It was nice meeting you, Jemille." Before his medallion disappeared out of view, I spotted the bit of gold that nestled with it. It was a wedding ring.

* * *

It was deserted at the Imperial Academy because the four weeks of summer vacation had not yet ended. I came here early because I felt I could not call Trivant home anymore. I knew more than ever the true nature of the people there, and as a result they became strangers. Distancing myself was the only way I could stay sane.

The witcher made me see this way. He had handed me the book. As I'd gone through it, the written words of Lord Covier and the letters and documents he had tucked in between the pages told me the story.

Lady Noelle Covier, mother of Alani, had not been Lord Covier's first wife. She was his second, married three years after Lady Viviette's death. After her suicide. She had hung herself from a noose in one of the manor rooms. It had been noted that the month prior to her death, she had grown increasingly reclusive and agitated. It was understandable. Her son, just shy of two years, had died in a carriage accident in which the carriage had tipped over and collapsed.

I never knew until now. I'd just been a baby when it had happened. But I could imagine how everyone reacted to the tragedy. I thought back to that entry in Viviette's journal.

If there had been someone, just one person, who had turned away from all the gossip and stopped by the Covier manor to ask her if she was okay, would things have been different? Would the path have diverged from a woman taking her own life out of misery and loneliness? I didn't know. But I knew one thing—Trivant would never change. In that town, people talk.

When classes started up again, I tried my best to focus. It was hard. But one thing I clung onto was the witcher. Never change, he had told me. I thought I knew what witchers were like. I thought I knew how they felt. But I couldn't stop thinking about what happened in that manor—what the monster had resorted to in her last moments before the witcher had done her in.

He had been clutching the ring when I found him sitting on the stairs. The stare he pointed towards the unseen distance had shown that he was gone—submerged in some old, guarded memory.

Seeing him in that moment told me one thing: I didn't know how witchers felt. And they _did_ feel. Maybe even more than most of us. Definitely more than the sheep back in Trivant.

And then he had left, fleeing the wrath of the people he had helped just because of the throwaway words of some dumb moron. It wasn't fair. What happened to the Coviers wasn't fair. The fate Viviette had been driven to wasn't fair.

People talk.

When the air grew a chilly bite and students started packing up for Yule, some noticed that my belongings were unpacked. They asked me if I was going home for the winter.

"No," I told them.


End file.
